


Sleepover

by kremlin



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas, MAAS Sarah J. - Works
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Roommates/Housemates, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Roommates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-28
Updated: 2017-12-30
Packaged: 2019-02-23 04:54:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13182780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kremlin/pseuds/kremlin
Summary: Feyre and Rhys are roommates and friends. But they are also secretly in love with each other, only they don’t dare confess. That is, until Feyre comes home from a night out with Rhys’ meddlesome cousin Mor.





	1. Rhysand

Rhys woke up with a start when he felt his bed dip under the weight of another person. For a moment, he thought he was back with his crazy ex Amarantha and she had come to harass him during his sleep, like she used to do, but when he opened his eyes, he found he was in his own spacious bedroom. The yellow light of the streetlamp in front of his townhouse filtered through the window, allowing him to make out the shapes of his armoire, closet and the figure of the woman, who had crawled into his bed in the middle of the night.

Rhys took a deep breath and willed himself to calm down. Not because he was still battling the shock that had startled him out of sleep. No, because the woman, who had unceremoniously thrown herself onto his mattress and now started snoring softly, was the woman he had desperately been in love with for the past year, only she didn’t seem to realize it and he was too much of a coward to confess.

Rhys turned over and gently shook her shoulder, trying to wake her. She smelled of booze. “Feyre?”

Feyre mumbled something incoherently and buried her face deeper into his pillow. Rhys shook her a bit harder. “Feyre, wake up, this is my bed.”

It wasn’t the first time that Feyre had ended up in his bed. They had been roommates for over half a year now, after she had finally left her abusive ex and had been looking for a place to stay. They both were prone to nightmares, and after Rhys had woken up one night to hear her screaming and sobbing and made his way to her room to wake her from her nightly terrors, Feyre had done the same for him a few weeks later. Somehow, they had come to the unspoken agreement to enter each other’s room when they felt they needed to. They found solace in each other’s company and more than often Feyre asked Rhys to stay with her after he had woken her from a nightmare, or stayed with Rhys when he had one, because she knew he didn’t dare ask for her to stay. But she had never barged into his room like this, drunk off her ass, while he was perfectly asleep.

“Feyre darling,” he said again and rolled her onto her back. This time, she blinked her eyes open and tried to focus on the face that was looming over her.

“Rhys,” she slurred and smiled a broad smile in recognition. Rhys heart jumped to his throat. Even inebriate, she was just so damn cute. He brushed some hairs out of her face.

“Darling, are you drunk?” he asked.

Feyre gave a little scowl and a pout and Rhys had to resist the urge to press his lips to hers. Instead, he brushed a finger over her furrowed brow, trying to smooth the wrinkles.

“ ‘s all Mor’s fault,” she explained and swatted his hand away. Or tried to. She missed. “Mor shaid I need Tequila, sho we did.” Well, judging from the way she smelled, Mor had probably bought a bottle or two and they had been drinking excessively. Rhys decided he would chew out his cousin in the morning. Or hire a mariachi band to play under her window.

Feyre’s eyes were drifting close again, but Rhys shook her awake again. “Darling, you are in the wrong bed.” That got her attention and she blinked her eyes open, looking around the room in confusion and then towards him.

“Thish ish your room,” she stated. Rhys nodded, trying not to laugh at her. Really, just to damn cute. “Then I’m right,” she declared and flopped onto her front, hugging the pillow and shifting to get comfortable.

“What do you mean you’re right. This is not your bed, Feyre darling.” Rhys was confused as hell.

Feyre opened one eye to look up at him, the rest of her face adorably squished against the pillow. “I want to sleep with you.”

Blood was thrumming in his ears, drowning out all sound but her words. _I want to sleep with you._ Of course, he knew she didn’t mean it in a sexual way, but still. Feyre only ever slept over, when she thought he needed her to, not because she wanted to. Or did she? Rhys swallowed.

“Darling, why do you want to sleep with me?” He needed to know. Feyre wasn’t usually so upfront, but the alcohol seemed to have stripped away her inhibitions and loosened her tongue.

“Why wouldn’t I,” she said, frowning, and lifted her face from the pillow to look at him. “You are pretty and attractive and I like you, you prick.”

Rhys wasn’t sure he was breathing. He had wanted, _hoped_ to hear her say those things for the longest time. “You like me?”

“Duh!” Feyre rolled her eyes and attempted to flip onto her back, only her coordination was off and she almost threw herself off the bed, hadn’t it been for Rhys catching her and pulling her to his chest.

“Whoops, careful there, darling. My bed is big, but not that big.”

Instead of pushing out of his arms, like she usually would, Feyre snuggled closer and nuzzled his bare chest with her nose. Rhys was dying. Or maybe he was already dead and in heaven? Because there was no way this was happening. Right that very moment, he was kind of glad he always slept in his boxers only, because nothing felt more divine than cradling Feyre against his bare skin. Or so he thought, until she started kissing his chest.

“Feyre what –“

“I told ya, I like you!” She looked up to him and her bottom lip quivered, tears now lining her eyes. “Why don’t you like me, Rhys?”

“Of course I like you, darling,” he said, but slowly detached himself from her, even when he wanted nothing less. “But we shouldn’t be doing that while you’re drunk. And you’re still wearing your clothes.”

Feyre looked down at herself and eyed her attire critically. She was still wearing the dress Rhys had seen her leaving in: a short, sinfully tight black one-piece with a sheer lace back, that had left him wondering whether she was wearing a bra and whether he should trail after her and Mor to make sure no sleazy douchebag would try to feel her up tonight.

“Do you like my dresh?” she drawled, probably attempting to sound sultry.

Rhys chuckled and helped her sit up. “I do, but you shouldn’t sleep in it, darling.”

Feyre nodded and swung her legs over the edge of the bed to stand up, the lacy back of her dress turned to him. Rhys thought she would go back to her own room now, but she remained standing, fumbling with something at her side. Too late he realized she was fumbling with her zipper and before he could tell her to stop, Feyre had started stripping out of her dress, the black satin fabric pooling at her feet, and she was left clad only in a thong and her long hair. Rhys breath caught in his throat. He knew he should look away, but he couldn’t. She was a vision. And then she turned towards him and he was immensely relieved and disappointed to find that she was wearing one of those tape-on bras, covering her breasts.

Feyre clumsily climbed back into bed and tried to hug him, but Rhys held out a hand to halt her approach. His heart was beating so fast, it was about to explode in his chest. He wasn’t sure he would be able to control himself with her being practically naked, pressing her body against his. And even drunk as she was, there was no way she wouldn’t notice the painful erection tenting his boxers.

“Feyre, you haven’t brushed your teeth yet. And you still have make-up on. And maybe, you should wear something to bed.” Rhys was frantically trying to come up with reasons for her to leave his room, so he could calm down.

Feyre gave a sigh and sat back. “See, you don’t like me after all.”

Rhys gave a start. “Why do you think that?”

“Mor shaid, if I wear thish dresh, there wash no way you wouldn’t pounce, but you didn’t even look at me when I left today. And now you don’t want me to shleep with you.”

Her bottom lip quivered again. For a second, Rhys thought about catching that quivering lip with his teeth and then kiss her like he longed to do since the moment he had first laid eyes on her, but she was drunk and that wasn’t how he had envisioned their first kiss to be. Say what you want, but Rhysand was a hopeless romantic. With a big sigh, he got out of bed and pulled on some loose sweatpants that were conveniently lying next to his bed to hide the damning evidence of just how much he wanted to sleep with her. Then he picked up the tee shirt he had discarded before sleeping and circled around the bed, holding out a hand for Feyre, who clambered of the bed and came to stand in front of him. Gently, he placed her arms through the sleeves of his tee and pulled it over her head, covering the delicious temptation that was her body, before pulling her into a hug.

“Listen to me, you little drunk fool. I like you. A lot. And you are welcome to sleep in my bed whenever you want. But we can only do things like kissing and more when you’re sober. You hear me?”

Feyre nodded and reached for his face. “Sho you want to kissh me? And more?”

Rhys leaned down until their foreheads were touching. “I want to kiss you very much, Feyre. And more. Always have.” This made her giggle and Rhys couldn’t resist: he pressed a lingering kiss to her brow, making her gasp a little.

“No Rhys,” she cooed. “Only when I’m sober.” But then she raised herself on her tip-toes and kissed his jaw and Rhys had to silently count to 10 to before he attempted to speak again.

“Let’s get you cleaned up,” he said hoarsely and led her out of the room towards their shared bathroom. Gently pushing her to sit on the closed toilet, he took her make-up remover and cotton pads and started cleaning away the dark eye-make up she had artfully done earlier that day. Feyre closed her eyes and raised her face towards him with a little smile, content to have him wipe away the paint from her face. When he was done and her face bare and beautiful, he smacked a little kiss on the tip of her freckled nose, making her gasp and giggle once more. He handed Feyre her toothbrush and she diligently brushed her teeth under his watchful eyes. Only then did Rhys lead her back to his bedroom and allowed her to snuggle into his arms, once they had shimmied under the blankets. Feyre rested her head against the crook of his shoulder and sighed in contentment.

“Rhys?”

“Hm?”

“When I wake up tomorrow, will you tell me you like me and give me a kissh?”

“No.”

Feyre pushed out of his arms and looked down at him with a scowl. “But you shaid-“

Rhys gently cupped her cheek and stroked her cheekbone with his thumb. Cauldron, she was so beautiful.

“When you remember tonight after you have woken up, _you_ tell me you like me and you want your kiss. And then I’ll tell you that I love you and kiss you as much as you want.”

Feyre blushed and snuggled back into his arms. “I love you too, Rhys,” she mumbled quietly against his chest, so quiet, he wasn’t sure he had heard her right. She was asleep in a matter of seconds, but Rhys continued holding her, stroking her hair and watching her sleep, cataloging each and every breath and burning every detail into his memory. Because he knew, when she woke, there was no chance in hell she would remember what had happened tonight. So he was determined to enjoy each and every second of Feyre sleeping in his arms before she broke his heart come the morning.


	2. Feyre

Feyre’s head was pounding and her tongue felt both disgustingly slimy and dry. Loosening a deep breath, she could smell the alcohol in it and wanted to gag. She would never drink again! Especially not with Mor. That woman could even drink Cassian under the table, which should be physically impossible, given their mutual friend had the statue and the weight of a grown grizzly bear.

Feyre snuggled closer into the arms that were holding her and wanted to go back to sleep, when she realized _there were arms. Holding her._ Who was holding her? She threw her eyes open, only to wince at the bright daylight in the room, the light causing a sharp pain in her already aching head. She immediately shut her eyes against the bright sunlight and opened them again more carefully, squinting at the naked male figure holding her against his chest.  She knew the man and the bed she was laying in.

_Shit, shit, shit._

She must have come into Rhys’ room last night, but she couldn’t remember a damn thing. She couldn’t even remember when she had stopped remembering. By the Mother’s mercy, Rhys was still asleep, his mouth slightly parted and his hair falling into his brow in that sexy, sleep mused way. And he was naked, at least his chest was. _Shit!_ Rhys never slept naked when she came to sleep over. She knew he was usually sleeping only in his underwear, but he was always making sure to don a tee when they shared a bed. And he never ever held her.

_What happened last night?_

Feyre couldn’t remember. Not one damn bit. The only thing that she knew was that she must have snuck into the bedroom of the guy she had the biggest and longest crush on completely wasted and slept with him. If that had involved sex, she didn’t know, but she couldn’t rule that out completely. After all, she had paraded about in that short, sexy dress for a good long while before leaving the house yesterday, hoping to finally coax a reaction from her roommate.

Feyre wanted to die. She felt the familiar panic rise in her chest, threatening to choke her. She had to get out – out of Rhysand’s arms, out of his bed, out of their house. Carefully, she tried to wiggle out of his arms, but when he felt her shifting, Rhys tightened his hold on her and mumbled her name in his sleep. “Feyre.”

Feyre was never as happy and mortified as at that moment. So he knew she was with him in his bed. The slight possibility that she had just snuck in while he was asleep and they had somehow found themselves in this position during sleep was gone. Feyre could probably just continue to sleep in his arms and enjoy his embrace, like she had secretly hoped to do every time they had a nightmare-induced sleepover, but Feyre wouldn’t be Feyre if she could simply admit that she was in love with Rhys and had been for a while, probably even before she finally broke up with her ex. No, if she could simply admit to her feelings, there was no need for her to drink herself into oblivion, because she was convinced that Rhys was not interested in her that way and her wearing that dress that Mor had convinced her to buy hadn’t even had him blink. She needed to get out and then drown herself in the shower, or jump of the roof, or ask Mor to kindly end her life with a knife to her broken heart.

Feyre pushed Rhys arms away and rolled over the get out of the bed, only realizing their legs were also intertwined when she tried to move them to step out of bed. With a loud shriek, the fell out of bed headfirst and barely caught herself with her hands, before she slammed face first into the hardwood floor.

“Feyre?” Rhys voice in the morning was sexier than it had any right to be.

Feyre quickly sat up to see Rhys sitting in bed, peering over the edge towards where she was sitting on the ground. His eyes slid down her body and he quickly averted his gaze, clearing his throat. Feyre looked down at herself. She was wearing a tee shirt, one that looked suspiciously like it belonged to Rhys and that had ridden up with her fall, exposing her underwear for all the world to see. Feyre hastily dragged the hem down, blushing furiously.

“You alright, darling?” Rhys asked, glancing back towards her, making sure she was presentable.

“Uh, yeah. What am I doing in your bed?”

Something like hurt flashed over his features, but Feyre might have imagined it, because the look was gone just as quickly and he smirked his usual insufferable smirk that she claimed to hate, but that made her knees go weak. Every. Damn. Time. Thank the Cauldron she was already sitting.

“You snuck in here last night, completely drunk, and claimed you wanted to sleep in my bed, so I let you.” Rhys laid back onto the bed and crossed his hands behind his head, staring at the ceiling. Feyre scrambled up from the ground and stood up, but she had still enough residual alcohol in her to be somewhat unsteady on her feet, so she flopped onto the bed, sitting on its edge and cradling her head. If mortification wasn’t killing her, her hangover would.

“I’m sorry,” she groaned, not daring to look at him.

“Naw, it’s fine.”

“Did you undress me?”

Behind her, Rhys snorted a laugh. “No. You did that yourself. You were about to sleep in your underwear, so I gave you my shirt.”

Horrified, Feyre palmed her chest to check whether her bra was still attached to her breasts under the shirt. It was, but it did nothing to calm her rising panic. He had seen her in her underwear. Her barely there underwear.

“Did we-,“ she whispered.

“Please! You were practically unconscious. There is no way I would touch you.”

Feyre wanted to die. Embarrassment made her cheeks burn and Feyre felt angry tears spring to her eyes. It was so unfair how Rhys was always unfazed while she desperately tried to keep her cool with him around, or even breath when he smiled at her. And now she had barged into his room and snuck into his bed practically naked and he still was completely unaffected. Like always when her emotions threatened to overwhelm her, Feyre choose to attack.

“Right, because there is no way you could ever find me even remotely attractive, I get it,” she snapped at him and stood up, bracing herself against the wall as to not fall over. “I’m sorry I barged in here. Let’s just forget it happened.”

“No need to forget, you already did,” Rhys scoffed back.

Feyre turned to look at him. He flung the covers off him – mercifully he was wearing sweatpants, Feyre was sure she would have dropped dead if he had been wearing boxers – and stalked over to his closet, pulling out a shirt to put on. She didn’t understand what he meant and she didn’t care, she just wanted to get out of his room.

Letting go of the wall, she staggered towards the door, but paused when she found a heap of satiny black fabric lying in front of the bed. _Her damn dress._ She quickly scooped it up and before Rhys could say anything else ran out of his bedroom.

She didn’t come far. Her stomach suddenly lurched and Feyre ducked into the bathroom, barely making it to the toilet, before she threw up whatever toxic contents her stomach still held. Tears stung her eyes as wave after wave found its way up her throat and into the toilet until only bile was left. Shaking, Feyre flushed and tried to calm her breathing, wiping her mouth on a piece of toilet paper before flushing that too.

Pulling herself up by the sink, Feyre rinsed her mouth and washed her face before assessing herself in the mirror. To her surprise, she wasn’t wearing any make-up. Rhys must have helped her take it off, because she never took off her make-up when drunk. Feyre sat down on the toilet and fought her tears. _She was such a fucking idiot._ She hoped she hadn’t botched their friendship with this. Even if Rhys didn’t consider her as a possible love interest, it was okay as long as she didn’t lose him as a friend. That she couldn’t bear. After Mor, he was the best friend she had. Swallowing her tears, Feyre got up and stripped. She probably smelled like a distillery and was in dire need of a shower. She would deal with the fallout of her drunken antics after she was clean and better smelling.

When Feyre padded barefoot through the house a short while later, still wearing Rhys’ tee but now with leggings, Rhys was nowhere to be found. Not in the kitchen, nor in the living room, nor his room – Feyre had snuck back in search of her missing purse. She found it by his bed, where she must have dropped it before getting in, but no Rhys.

This time, she couldn’t swallow her tears and they freely slid down her cheeks. Feyre was sure he had gotten out of the house, because he couldn’t face her after what she had done. She should never have listened to Mor telling her that Rhys was into her and she just needed to tease him enough to get him to act. Thinking about Mor, Feyre grew angry again. Bitching at Mor was the perfect way to deal with her frustration and anguish. It _was_ Mor’s fault after all.

Digging out her phone, she opened her messenger, but her fingers were too shaky to type properly and staring at the tiny letters made her dizzy, so Feyre recorded a voice mail instead.

“I hate you. I HATE YOU! You ruined everything. Now Rhys won’t even look at me anymore. I’m alone and he’s gone and probably hates me or is too annoyed to deal with my drunk sorry self.” Feyre sobbed into the phone. “There’s no way I can tell him now that I like him. He doesn’t care Mor. You were lying. He wouldn’t even touch me, when I was half naked in bed with him. He’s just not into me. I’m done. I’m done trying.” Feyre sobbed harder and inhaled a shaky breath to continue.

“Feyre?”

Feyre startled and turned around, finding Rhys standing in the doorway. _He heard. How much did he hear?_ She dropped her phone and, because she was still so damn dizzy and drunk, sunk to the floor. It was really over. He had heard her saying she liked him and seen her getting all emotional over it. She really just wanted to die.

Rhys swiftly walked over to her and kneeled before her, hugging her to him.

“Darling, why are you crying?” he asked softly.

But Feyre shook her head and cried harder, pressing her face into his chest. Rhys kept holding her and applying soothing strokes to her back until she calmed down.

“Shhh, don’t cry. I don’t understand. Talk to me Fey,” he murmured onto the crown of her head.

“You were g-gone and I thought you left, because you didn’t want to see me,” she bawled.

Rhys gave an exasperated sigh and kissed – _KISSED_ \- the top of her head. Feyre was so shocked, she stopped crying. He had never kissed her before. Ever.

“I was getting stuff for breakfast, because I thought you needed something more than cereal today,” he explained.

Feyre peeled her face way from his chest to look at him. _Was he for real?_

“Why would you go through the trouble? It’s not like you like me,” she choked out.

Rhys looked at her as if she had suddenly sprouted a tail and horns. “How did you get that idea into your head that I don’t like you, you little drunk fool?”

The words somehow snagged at her memory, but Feyre couldn’t place them. “But you said you wouldn’t touch me, so – “

“Cauldron Fey! Did you even know what state you were in yesterday? I wouldn’t touch _anyone_ in that state, that’d be rape. Is that what you meant by me not finding you attractive? Not taking advantage of a drunk woman?”

Feyre burned with shame. She should have known better. Of course Rhys wouldn’t touch a person that couldn’t give consent. What had she been thinking! Nothing much it seemed.

Rhys chuckled and helped her stand, brushing away the tears from her cheeks. “Come on, silly, let’s get you breakfast.”

Rhys led her to the kitchen downstairs, never letting go of her hand. Gently pushing her into a bar stool by the counter, he tenderly ran a knuckle over her cheek, before he started making her breakfast: bacon and pancakes. That motion, too, felt familiar, although Feyre was sure Rhys had never done that before. Placing a coke in front of her – because he knew Feyre was always craving coke when she was hungover – he took up their conversation again:

“Feyre darling, I don’t know what it is with you and Mor and that damn dress, but I think I told you many times, and quite frequently, how attractive I find you.” He glanced over to where she was sitting, sipping her coke in small sips. Feyre felt herself blush and averted her gaze. “And let me tell you, I like you. A lot. Always have.” Something at the back of her head was knocking insistently, begging her to remember, but she couldn’t. She was too busy processing that Rhys just told her he liked her.

“I like you, too,” she whispered like it was a secret. Well, to her it was. Her most precious and guarded secret. Though she was not sure that her like and his like were the same.

Rhys took the sizzling bacon out of the pan and poured the bacon grease into the pancake batter, just how she liked it.

“I know, you told me last night,” he confessed while pouring out the batter into the pan.

Feyre froze like a deer in headlights, not daring to breath. “I did?”

Rhys shot her a quick glance and then he blushed. BLUSHED! Rhysand, the cocky, arrogant, insufferable, impossibly dashing and handsome prick that could have dozens of girls dangling on each arm, blushed!

Flipping the pancakes, he simply said, “you did.”

Feyre watched the pancakes sizzle in the pan, focusing on her breathing. _In-out, in-out._ He liked her. She liked him. He knew, she knew. That was good, right? She was confused. And she felt like she was missing out on something big here, but she couldn’t piece it together.

“Is that why you were so pissed earlier? Because I forgot?” she asked.

Rhys huffed a humorless laugh and slid the pancakes from the pan onto a plate, adding two stripes of bacon and handing Feyre her breakfast.

“No, I was pissed, because I knew you would forget, but despite that, I still hoped you would remember.” He was looking at her with a sad smile, so sad, that Feyre’s heart twisted in her chest. Abandoning her breakfast, she slid from the bar stool and padded over to him, hugging herself to his chest. He smelled of citrus and jasmine and the sea and Feyre wanted nothing more than to be engulfed in his scent forever.

“I’m sorry I forgot. What else did I forget. Can you tell me what it was?”

Rhys shook his head, giving her another sorrowful smile. “Telling you is beside the point. There’s no meaning to it if I simply tell you.” Feyre wanted to protest, but he silenced her by pressing a lingering kiss to her brow.

“No Rhys,” she said blushing, “only when I’m sober.” And then Feyre gasped, because the memory came crashing down on her like a wave breaking on the shore.  Rhys drew back and looked at her in wonder, his eyes shining.

“Do you remember?” he asked in a husky voice.

She did. She had come into his room with the full intention to seduce him, but she had been drunk and super clumsy about it and he had refused to even kiss her. Not because he didn’t like her, but because he wanted her to be sober when he did. Feyre blushed a deep scarlet.

“I wanted you to kiss me, but you wouldn’t,” she said, realizing she was still hugging him around the middle. But before she could step away, Rhys arms had come up to encircle her, his hands coming to rest at her hip.

“Yes,” he breathed, resting his forehead against hers. Feyre’s heart stopped for a moment, before it started beating harder and faster again.

“You told me I could demand a kiss if I remember yesterday after I woke up and tell you that I like you again, sober.”

Rhys brushed his nose against hers and smiled. “Yes. Do you remember what I said I would do?

Their lips where centimeters apart, Feyre could feel his hot breath fanning over her face. “No,” she managed to say.

Rhys withdrew and Feyre was afraid she had angered him again, but he merely cupped her face with his hands and stared into her eyes.

“I said: ‘And then I’ll tell you that I love you and kiss you as much as you want’. I love you Feyre. I’m in love with you. Ever since we met.”

Feyre’s breath caught in her throat and tears pooled in her eyes again.

“Rhys?” she asked.

“Yeah?”

“When do I finally get my damn kiss?”


	3. Morrigan

“You deserve to suffer, you know?”

Despite her words, Andromache placed an ibuprofen and a large glass of orange juice on the coffee table in front of the couch Mor was lounging on. Mor beamed up to her girlfriend. “I love you.”

Andy snorted in response, but a faint blush crept into her cheeks. Slapping Mor’s feet, so she would make space for her on the couch, she sat down and frowned at Mor, who gave a happy sigh, causing Andy’s frown to deepen.

“If  _you_  are having a hangover, I don’t want to know how poor Feyre’s feeling,” she remarked tartly.

Mor waved her hand dismissively and continued to throw her girlfriend smitten looks. Mor had been battling with coming out for so long, that she hadn’t dared confess to Andromache. Instead, she had one-sidedly crushed on the girl for the better part of the year they spent together in their senior management class. It had been Feyre to whom Mor had finally come out to, and her friend had been incredibly supportive of her, encouraging her to confess to Andy. Mor couldn’t be happier than she was now, lounging on her couch and nursing her hangover with her beautiful girlfriend spoiling her.

She wanted to give that happiness back to her best friend, who was so unhappily in love with Mor’s cousin, but refused to listen to her assurances, that Rhys was just as much in love with Feyre, as she was with him. And, if she was being completely honest, she was sick and tired of hearing them claim they were in love with the other in front of Mor, only to keep up their pretense of indifference in front of each other.

“She’s a grown girl, hon, she’ll manage. And maybe she finally got over herself and drunk-confessed to Rhys. You should have seen how down she was before we started on the tequila yesterday. She bought this smokin dress to tease Rhys, but she claimed he hadn’t reacted in the slightest - upper bullshit if you ask me, because even  _I_ got slightly excited seeing her in that dress. And Rhys already gets this stupid dazed look when she’s just wearing paint stained sweaters and leggings. Like he’s a donkey and she’s a carrot dangling in front of him.”

Andy sighed and shook her head, but pulled Mor’s feet into her lap and softly started massaging the pads of her feet. “Really, Mor…”

Mor threw up her hands. “I can’t stand it anymore. They’ve been circling and dancing around each other for months now. After Feyre finally left that tool, I was convinced it would only be a matter of time, but she kept mumbling nonsense like  _Rhys doesn’t like me that way_ and  _it’s too soon after Tamlin, I can’t do that to him_  and whatnot. And Rhys is convinced he is unlikable and she could never see him that way. If I hear another sad rant about how much they are in love, but the other isn’t, I’ll explode! I swear it! Not that that should be necessary after tonight.”

Mor smiled a diabolic little smile.

Andy knew that look and eyed Mor warily. “What did you do, you fiend?”

Mor beamed. “I might have suggested to drunk Feyre, that she should definitely sneak into Rhys’ bed, because he really likes it when she does.”

“Mor, you really need to stop messing with them.” Andy pushed Mor’s feet out of her lap, looking positively outraged. “They’ll figure it out eventually. Let them set their own pace. These things shouldn’t be forced.”

“Oh please.” Mor waved her hand again. “I know what I’m doing.” Mor angled her body and reached for her phone, that lay on the coffee table. “Let’s see how it went. I bet Feyre is awake by now.”

Indeed, unlocking her phone, Mor found a voice message from Feyre. Throwing Andy a smug look, she pressed the play button.

_“I hate you. I HATE YOU! You ruined everything. Now Rhys won’t even look at me anymore. I’m alone and he’s gone and probably hates me or is too annoyed to deal with my drunk sorry self. There’s no way I can tell him now that I like him. He doesn’t care Mor. You were lying. He wouldn’t even touch me, when I was half naked in bed with him. He’s just not into me. I’m done. I’m done trying.”_

You could have heard a needle fall in the silence that followed. Mor stared at her phone, open-mouthed.  _What the fuck happened?_ Feyre had clearly been crying. Raising her gaze to Andromache, Mor was met with her girlfriend’s angry stare.

“I told you to leave them alone,” she hissed. “ _I know what I’m doing_ my ass! You better get your hungover carcass over to their place and clean up that mess you made, Morrigan!” Mor swallowed and nodded.

When Mor had finally made her way to Rhys’ townhouse 30 minutes later, she expected to find a bawling Feyre secluded in her room, refusing to speak with her until Mor would lose her patience and kick the door in. That wouldn’t be the first time she did.

She expected Rhys to be brooding on the rooftop terrace, his favorite spot to do so, especially because Feyre still hadn’t figured out, that this was where he went when he disappeared, wanting to be alone and wallowing in his self-pity.

What Mor certainly hadn’t expected, was finding her cousin and her best friend in the kitchen, aggressively making out. They were both topless, Feyre lying sprawled on the kitchen table, Rhys hovering over her and palming her naked breasts while they were devouring each other.

“What the fuck you guys, I EAT ON THAT TABLE!”

The pair detached their lips from each other and turned their heads to her, eyes widening in shock of finding Mor standing there and witnessing the scene. With a barked curse, Rhys pulled Feyre from the table and to his chest, shielding her naked front from Mor’s eyes.

“The fuck, Morrigan?” he bellowed, tenderly holding a blushing Feyre.

“That’s my line! Care to explain why Feyre sends me a mushroom cloud message, telling me she hates me, because she fucked up, and you were gone and she was done trying to get you to finally admit your feelings for her - that by the way were painfully obvious to anybody but her - and I run over here because I am worried as hell and now I find you half naked having sex on the kitchen table?”

If Mor hadn’t just given that little summary herself, she might have thought she was reading aloud some badly written fanfic. Stuff like that just didn’t happen.

“We were not having sex on the kitchen table,” Feyre said over her shoulder.

Rhys nodded in outraged affirmation. “Right, we were  _about to_  have sex on the kitchen table.”

That earned him a slap from Feyre and a series of gag noises from Mor.

“Gross! You’re are GROSS!” And with that, Mor turned on her heel and stomped down the hallway towards the front door. “I expect your thank you anytime! Your welcome!” she hollered before slamming the door shut behind her.

“Shit, I forgot I send her a message,” Feyre groaned, resting her forehead against Rhys’ sculptured chest. Rhys cradled the nape of her neck and tilted her head to face him.

“Mushroom cloud message?” 

Rhys eyes dances with amusement while he looked at the beautiful, disheveled mess he finally got to call his girlfriend.

“Didn’t you hear my rant? Earlier in your room.”

“No,” he admitted. “I was too panicked to find you crying like you did, than to listen to what you were saying.”

Feyre smacked him again, but this time Rhys caught her hand and kissed the tips of her fingers. Feyre melted, especially when her handsome, sexy, freshly-baked boyfriend started nibbling at her fingers.

“Well, now that we had our obligatory Mor walk-in, can we continue?” she asked coyly.

With a chuckle, Rhys pressed his lips to hers and gave her a deep kiss.

“Mor was right, though,” he said after they broke apart. “She _is_  eating on that table. So are we. Maybe we should continue in the bedroom?”

Feyre tilted her head. “Mine or yours?”

Rhys smirked and stole another deep kiss before he replied, putting the new angle of her head to good use.

“I don’t care. Pick one. But from now, darling, we are only ever gonna have sleepovers.”


End file.
